A Garry Shandling Photograph That Closes the Book on a Late-Night Era

Four famous white men onstage in tuxedos: David Letterman, Garry Shandling, Jay Leno, and Johnny Carson, on the “Tonight Show,” in 1988.

Photograph by Joseph Del Valle / NBC / NBCU Photo Bank / Getty

Of all the images and videos that have resurfaced in the days of mourning following the death of Garry Shandling, one particular photograph stands out for me. It was taken in 1988, on the set of the “Tonight Show,” during an episode marking the twenty-sixth anniversary of Johnny Carson’s run as host. It shows Carson during a bit with three of the recurring guest hosts on the show—Shandling, David Letterman, and Jay Leno—each of whom, by that point, had some designs on taking over for Carson when he finally came around on the idea of calling it quits. There is a lot of comedy firepower in that photo, and a lot of ego. Four famous white men onstage in tuxedos: it’s like a Hollywood version of one of those photographs from the early Soviet era that show political leaders in an uneasy alliance, before all the backstabbing, purges, and power grabs.

But what’s most striking about the image is how it captures, in the faces and manner of the four men, the precise nature of their comedic appeal. There’s Letterman looming at left, his arms crossed, his face broken out in that contemptuous, though infectious, cackle. There’s Leno, his eyes hooded in shadow, looking cunning and agile, ready at the quick with a joke that would sound less mean than it was. There’s Carson, leaning easily back at the end, amused and confident, the outwardly cool and benevolent master of all American ceremonies, with whatever sadness that lurked within him left safely in the dressing room. And then there is Shandling, the comedian who never hosted a talk show of his own but instead created, with “The Larry Sanders Show,” from 1992 to 1998, a fictional one that punctured the cultural mythology of late night, as well as reimagined what a sitcom might be. Shandling looks less at ease; he purses his lips and clutches his right arm with his left hand. And, while the other men look at one another, Shandling stares straight ahead, as if seeking the audience’s approval, worried what it might be thinking of the show, or him, or his hair. But he’s also making a connection with that soulful gaze, communicating the loneliness of the performer and calling attention to the basic artifice inherent in the performance.

Shandling was twice offered a late-night show of his own, first in Letterman’s old spot, at twelve-thirty on NBC, and later following Letterman at his new home network, CBS. He turned both offers down, opting each time to pursue the central ideas of late-night comedy on a parallel track, with his Larry Sanders persona. That character was so influential, however, so funny and mean and human and real, that it seems now, upon reflection, that Shandling did in fact host his own late-night show in the nineties, and for that reason this 1988 photograph marks the early years of an era that has only recently fully ended. Leno let go of what had become a bitter hold on the “Tonight Show” in 2014; he’s appearing on one of NBC’s other networks hosting a show about cars. Letterman, cranky to the end, signed off last year. He was the last through line to Carson, who made his final television appearance on Letterman’s CBS show, in 1994, and kept his hand secretly in the game, Letterman later revealed, by sending in monologue jokes up until his death, in 2005. Shandling based “The Larry Sanders Show” on his experience guest-hosting for Carson, and part of its effect was to reveal much of what Carson kept off the air—the rivalries, the insecurity, the hollowness of celebrity, and the dreariness of the daily comedy grind. If Leno and Letterman were disciples of Carson, each in his own way, then Shandling was more like a historian or critic, shading our memories and understanding of what we’d seen with commentary and meta-narrative.

Shandling’s sudden death last week reminded me of a scene from the third season of “The Larry Sanders Show,” in which his producer, Artie, visits him in retirement in a cabin in Montana and orders him to come back to host the show. “C’mon, Larry, I knew you wouldn’t be happy here,” he says. “You’re a talk-show animal. You’re like one of those goddamn creatures out of Greek mythology: half-man, half-desk.” Carson, Leno, and Letterman were these mythic creatures—like schoolteachers spotted in the grocery aisle, they appeared shockingly out of place away from their familiar sets. Shandling’s career was more varied; he was always more of a comedian than a broadcaster, and he reached his artistic height by satirizing the very idea that there was anything respectable about hosting a talk show. Yet, nearly twenty years removed from his greatest creation, Garry was, for many viewers, still Larry, the reluctant but brilliant talk-show animal.

Ian Crouch is a contributing writer and producer for newyorker.com. He lives in Maine.